Alas, Christmas and a criminal alien coalesced tragically, when Bob Clark, director of “A Christmas Story,” was killed by a drunk illegal alien in 2007. Clark’s son, age 22, also died on that day in April.

Like the director of that enchanting film, the family depicted in “A Christmas Story” is all but dead and buried, too—killed by Uncle Sam, the patron saint of social disorder.

Described by a critic as “one of those rare movies you can say is perfect in every way,” “A Christmas Story” debuted in 1983. Set in the 1940s, the film depicts a series of family vignettes through the eyes of 9-year-old Ralphie Parker, who yearns for that gift of all gifts: the Daisy Red Ryder BB gun.

This was boyhood before “bang-bang you’re dead” was banned; family life prior to “One Dad Two Dads Brown Dad Blue Dads,” and Christmas before Saint Nicholas was denounced for his whiteness and “Merry Christmas” condemned for its exclusivity.

If children could choose the family into which they were born, most would opt for the kind depicted in “A Christmas Story,” where mom is a happy homemaker, dad a devoted working stiff, and between them, they have no repertoire of psychobabble to rub together.

Although clearly adored, Ralphie is not encouraged to share his feelings at every turn. Nor is he, in the spirit of gender-neutral parenting, circa 2016, urged to act out like a girl if he’s feeling … girlie. Instead, Ralphie is taught restraint and self-control. And horrors: The little boy even has his mouth washed out with soap and water for uttering the “F” expletive. “My personal preference was for Lux,” reveals Ralphie, “but I found Palmolive had a nice piquant after-dinner flavor—heady but with just a touch of mellow smoothness.” Ralphie is, of course, guilt-tripped with stories about starving Biafrans when he refuses to finish his food.

The parenting practiced so successfully by Mr. and Mrs. Parker fails every progressive commandment. By today’s standards, the delightful, un-precocious protagonist of “A Christmas Story” would be doomed to a lifetime on the therapist’s chaise lounge—and certainly to daily doses of Ritalin, as punishment for unbridled boyishness and daydreaming in class …

There’s no TV station or program that provides sanctuary or a safe space from Megyn Kelly. Today the Fox News celebrity anchor shared her Dr. Phil philosophy on Tucker Carlson’s 4-day-old show. I remember the “self-help bromide” Kelly disgorged because she’s mouthed it before. “Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself.” (Smiles smugly after she says this trite thing, as though she’s “gifted” the world with something special. Oh yes, she has: herself.)

Garry Kasparov is also a nuisance, a neoconservative activist, the equivalent of Ahmed Chalabi.

I see it differently. The “The Trump Revolution: The Donald’s Creative Destruction Deconstructed” covers the destructive role played by showgirl Megyn Kelly in anti-Trump feminist agitprop. As I point out in the book, by her own admission, “the anchoring ‘philosopher’ in Kelly’s life is Oprah Winfry’s protégé TV pop-psychologist Dr. Phil.” So she naturally gravitates to pop-psychology as her explanatory idiom.

Megyn Kelly’s a pop tart. That’s all.

Megyn Kelly gets called out on her bias, says Gingrich has "anger issues".

You don’t need to read this drivel in which a dumb parent “shares” his dumber, self-inflicted malady so publicly—public writing has turned into anti-intellectual public advocacy, hasn’t it? Conjure and share your cultivated malady, and abracadabra, you are a hero.

Whinging aside, you already knew the following:

* It’s your fault the little snot is addicted not to books or to outdoor ball games, but to gadgets.

You and I survived without them. If Creepy kid needs to contact crazy in love parent urgently, he or she can go to the principal’s office. It’ll give Creepy an opportunity to practice a few civilizing habits you refrained from teaching him:

Knock on her door (it’s never a guy these days). Enter when she says so. Address her as Ma’am or Mrs. Ask if you may call mom or dad, PLEASE.

Alternatively, tell him to wait on the corner until you collect him, just like you, his parent, used to do (we walked home, 4-5km each day).